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by theinsandoutsofcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5680093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinsandoutsofcastiel/pseuds/theinsandoutsofcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Could you do a fic where the reader wakes up in a bed with ____ (kinda like the ‘French Mistake’) and kinda freaks out until ____ calms her down. And is supposedly living in the bunker with TFW and is in a long relationship with ____. They try to get her back but then she realizes she wants to stay? I thought it could have smut and/or lots of fluff? ☺️ thank you so much love
            </p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Warnings: Language, mentions of alcohol, mentions of deceased family

Fic:

You yawn and roll over in your bed, stretching out to take up more of the empty bed, except the bed wasn’t empty. “What the Hell?” you ask aloud as your arm falls across someone’s chest.

“Good morning Sweetheart,” a man says in a deep, sleep laden voice. You pull away as he tries to wrap an arm around your naked body. Noticing your lack of clothes, you pull the sheets up around you as you move to the opposite end of the bed. “You ok there, Baby?” the man asks with a chuckle, running his hand through his messy dirty blonde hair.

“Who the Hell are you?” you question, your eyes leaving the man to examine the unfamiliar room, “And where the fuck am I?”

“Y/N, Baby, what’s gotten into you?” the man asks, reaching towards you.

“Stop calling me ‘Baby,’” you demand, “And how do you know my name?”

“Y/N, stop it,” the man demands, “This isn’t funny anymore.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, standing from the bed, “This was never funny.” Looking around the floor, you pick up your clothing and head towards the door.

“Stop,” the man says, catching your wrist, “I don’t understand what’s happening. If you’re leaving me, then fine, but don’t act like you don’t know me. We’ve been through too much shit for that.”

“Look, guy,” you say pulling your wrist away from him, “I don’t know what happened last night, but I must’ve been blackout drunk. I don’t remember a single thing I said or did. Look, I don’t know you and you don’t know me, so I’m going home, got that?”

“Y/N, you’re in the bunker, this is your home,” the man says, his voice almost sounds heartbroken, “I don’t know what happened to make you act like this, but please, just stay and we can talk this out.”

“No,” you reply, “I want to go home.” With that, you turn and leave the room, looking for the nearest bathroom. The man had said that this was your home, but he had to be lying. Nothing looked even remotely familiar. The place was a maze that you had no clue how to navigate.

When you’ve finally dressed yourself and found your way out of the maze, you find yourself in a garage full of cars. Luckily for you, the keys were hanging on a board near the door. Grabbing the nearest one, you open the garage door and head for the car that the key belongs to.

“Y/N, wait please,” you hear the man call right before you start up the engine, “Look, if you really can’t remember me, I can prove you know me.” He holds a phone up to the window of your car. Two faces smile at you, his and yours. The picture only makes things worse. You’d never seen this man in your life and the fact that you couldn’t even remember his face, let alone his name, scared you. Quickly, you slam your foot down on the pedal and speed off.

This was ridiculous. Just yesterday you had been hunting with your parents, and today you were waking up in the bed of a stranger. You had no clue how you’d ended up here, but maybe your parents would have the answers.

You drove as far as you could, only stopping when you knew you couldn’t keep your eyes open any longer. Checking in to the nearest motel, you finally have a chance to call your parents. The first call goes straight to voicemail, as does the second, and the third. By the tenth call, you begin to worry, and by the seventeenth, you know you aren’t going to get a hold of them. All the numbers you know have either been turned off or disconnected.

Tears begin to run down your face, you knew they were dead. You were alone, truly and utterly alone. Your life had changed overnight, without you even knowing; or maybe you did know and you drank too much in an attempt to forget. How could this happen? you ask yourself, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. Your life was dangerous, being a hunter, you knew that; but nothing made sense. Why couldn’t you remember your parent’s deaths, and how did their deaths send you to the arms of a stranger?

A sudden knock on the door makes you jump. “Y/N, I know you’re in there, it’s me Dean,” a man says, you recognize his voice.

“I don’t know you,” you scream through your tears.

“Y/N, please, just let me in,” he says, “Maybe I can explain.”

“How?” you question, sniffling and wiping away your tears, “You don’t know me.”

“I do though,” Dean says. You hear a thud against the door as he sits down in front of it. “I’ve known you for years, and for most of that time, I’ve been your boyfriend. I met you on a hunt when my father introduced you to me. We hated each other at first, always getting in each other’s ways; but the more we worked together, the more we started to like each other. Your parents were pissed when they found out about us. No child of theirs would ever get involved with a Winchester.”

During his speech, you had moved to sit with your back against the door. “Wait, did you say Winchester?” you question, recognizing the name.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “That’s my last name. Do you remember it?”

“I remember meeting a John Winchester when I was little,” you tell him, “My parents worked with him on a couple of hunts.”

“That’s my dad,” Dean says, “Or he was anyway.”

“Was?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “He died a while back. I guess you don’t remember, but you were there for me when it happened. You helped me through everything. Not just losing my dad, but everything bad.”

“What about when I lost my parents?” you question.

“Do you remember what happened?” Dean asks.

“No,” you whisper sadly.

“They died fighting,” Dean says, “It was hellhounds and demons. I was the first person you told. You were a couple of states away from me when I heard, but I drove day and night until I got to you. When I got there, you were a mess. You didn’t want to talk about it and I didn’t blame you. I remember just holding you for hours. You started hunting with my brother and me after that and I’ve been with you ever since.”

“Dean, I’m opening the door,” you say, slowly standing from the floor. You turn the handle of the door and pull it open to reveal Dean standing behind it, his hands in his pockets and his feet shuffling nervously.

“Hey,” he says quietly, his green eyes searching yours.

“Hey,” you reply, moving away from the door in order to let Dean in.

“Do you remember anything about me at all?” Dean asks, hopeful.

“No,” you reply, “But I feel like I can trust you.” Dean reaches a hand out to you, but pulls it away, thinking better of his action.

“Here,” Dean says, moving to sit on the bed, “I brought some photos for you to see. I thought maybe they’d spark your memories. Dean pulls out a stack of photographs as you move to sit by his side.

“Do you remember this?” Dean asks, holding out a picture of you with an older man wearing a baseball cap, a beard covering his chin. You shake your head, indicating no. “His name was Bobby,” Dean says, “You were like family to him. When your parents went on hunts they thought were too dangerous, they’d leave you with him for protection. Sometimes I was there too. We’d sneak out to the junkyard to make out and … sorry, this is probably awkward for you.”

Dean puts the photo on the bottom of the stack and holds out a new one. This one shows you with a young man, his arms wrapped around you. He has long hair and hazel eyes, his smile almost sad. “Your brother?” you question.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, “Do you remember him?”

“No,” you say, “Just a guess. He’s kinda cute. Remind me why I started dating you and not him.”

“Hey,” Dean says, laughing soon after, “You fell so in love with me, you couldn’t even look at anyone else.” You giggle and lean towards him, nudging his shoulder with yours. “No, the two of you are best friends. It’s kind of annoying when the two of you gang up on me, but he’s your brother as much as he is mine,” Dean says.

Dean pulls out a new photo. This one shows you with a dark haired, blue eyed man in a trench coat with a blue tie. You’re hugging the man, but he looks awkward and stiff. “I’m guessing he doesn’t like me very much,” you say, examining the man’s face.

“Are you kidding me?” Dean asks, “The dorky angel loves you. He’d do anything for you.”

“Wait, angels exist?” you question.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, “Which is unfortunate at times, but Cas is cool.”

Dean switches the photos again. The new one shows you sitting on the hood of a black Impala. “I remember this car,” you say, “It was your dad’s right?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “It’s kind of frustrating that you can remember my dad and not me.” Dean switches the pictures again, this time showing the two of you. “These are of us,” Dean says, stating the obvious. One of the pictures shows you kissing Dean, from the look of it, you were consumed by him. The other shows you smiling at the camera, but Dean’s eyes are on you, looking at you like you meant the world to him. “I love you,” Dean says, “You have to know that.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I don’t remember any of this. I wish I did, but I just don’t.”

“I wish I knew how this happened,” Dean says, propping his elbows on his knees and rubbing his face between his hands, “Maybe if I knew how it happened, I could fix it.”

“You do that a lot don’t you?” you ask, “Fix things.”

“All the damn time,” Dean says with a sigh. You reach a hand out and touch his shoulder gently. His face turns towards you, his eyes sad.

“That place we were earlier, the bunker you called it, you said it was my home,” you say, more a statement than a question.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Sam and I brought you to live there after your parents … you know.” You nod in understanding.

“I don’t remember you or my life, but I want to. I want you to help me remember,” you tell him, “I want you to take me home.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requests: I bet that one shot from the Thanksgiving week challenge about the girl losing her memory could be the start of a fantastic series! Like, how did she lose her memory? Maybe without her memory she’ll fall for Sam instead of Dean (though this seems unlikely after the first part)? So many possibilities…. AND i’ve been struggling with really bad anxiety and panic attacks for a while now, and i’d love to see a fic of sam and dean calming down reader after they/she has a panic attack or something and maybe them kissing and hugging her to soothe her? thanks a lot, keep up the amazing work!!! Xox

Warnings: Memory loss, reader has a panic attack, death of the reader’s parents (including mentions of blood/violence)

Fic:

The bunker wasn’t the home you remembered. It wasn’t the home you grew up in, the home where your parents taught you to hunt, but apparently it was the home you made with Dean. When you first arrived, you thought you’d never be able to navigate the damn place without a map. The longer you stayed, however, the better you got at navigating the maze.

Dean had hoped that bringing you home would help to fill in the gaps in your memory, but so far you had no luck. Even Castiel, an angel of the lord, couldn’t restore your memory. You remembered being young, your parents becoming hunters, and learning to hunt as well, but beyond that was a blank. You knew how old you were and could acknowledge the amount of time that had passed between your last memory and waking up in Dean’s bed, but you couldn’t remember anything in between. The most frustrating part was that no matter what Dean and Sam told or showed you, you still couldn’t put the pieces together.

You could tell that Dean loved you unconditionally, and it broke your heart. He was tortured by your inability to remember him, even more so than you were. He’d given you your own room and the space you needed, but you could tell how badly he wanted to be close to you. You weren’t ready for that. Dean may know everything about you, but all you know about him are the bits and pieces he shares with you. If you really did love this man, you wished more than anything that you could remember your feelings; but for the time being, you felt nothing remotely close to love for him.

After all the time you’d spent with them lately, you noticed that Sam seemed to be the more level headed of the two brothers. Where Dean wanted to shoot things first and ask questions later, Sam wanted to conduct all of the research he could before taking action. You would help him with the research from time to time, hoping to find a spell or cure for your predicament. The more time you spent with Sam, the more distant Dean seemed to become. It was almost as if by spending time with Sam, you were pushing Dean away. Sam told you that Dean was only trying to process the situation, but you couldn’t help but feel like he was beginning to resent you. For all you knew, he might even regret coming after you.

Losing the memory of more than half your life overnight was a stress you weren’t sure how to handle. The thought of being a burden to the brothers only added extra stress. You began to obsess. Your days and nights were spent pouring through grimoires. Even Sam, the research addict, had to convince you to take breaks every now and again. Tonight was no different.

“I’m almost done with this one,” you comment, flipping the page.

“It’s almost two in the morning,” Sam argues.

“I’m close to finding a cure, I can feel it,” you protest.

“Y/N, as your best friend, I can promise you we’ll find a cure,” Sam assures, “But running yourself down isn’t doing you any good.”

“When?” you ask, “When will we find this magic cure? Every second I spend sleeping is a second I waste.”

“You can’t think of it like that,” Sam says.

“Then how should I -” your words cut off as you turn the page. The paper displays an image of what a hellhound would look like if you could see it. Its fur is completely black, its eyes as red as the blood dripping from its canines. Your eyes go wide just before spots appear in your vision.

“Y/N?” you hear Sam ask somewhere in the distance. His voice is nearly drowned out by the pounding in your ears. You grasp the arms of your chair so tightly, your knuckles were surely turning white. Sam repeats your name, but it does no good. You’re too far gone. Your heart pounds in your chest, so hard it feels as if it could crack your ribs. Each breath you take is quick and shallow as you begin to hyperventilate. You feel as if you could pass out and throw up at the same time.

The picture in the book before you transforms into another scene. Your mom pushes you into a hidden space behind the bookcase in your childhood home. She tells you to stay quiet as she pushes the bookcase back into place. Her face is already streaked with blood, cuts and scars littering her skin. You hold your breath as you peek through a crack between the wall and bookcase, trying to watch the scene unfolding outside.

Your father falls backward into the room as an invisible force tackles him. He screams as the hellhound bites and tears at his flesh, his attempts to fight back doing no good. Your mother races to his rescue, shooting at the invisible dog. It yelps, but doesn’t let up on the attack. The hellhound’s distress only attracts the rest of its pack. You watch helplessly as your parents fight for their lives. It seems like the scene goes on for hours, but in a matter of seconds, your family and the life you knew are gone.

After the hellhounds leave, the demons come in to inspect. They search the house, looking for you, but they miss your hiding spot. When they finally give up, you can’t move. It’s like you’re glued to the spot. All you can do is look helplessly out at the lifeless bodies of your parents through the crack between the bookcase and the wall. Tears stream down your face.

You’re not sure how long you sat there, staring and crying. Finally you reach into your pocket and pull out your phone. You scroll through your contacts until you find the one person you know you can rely on. Dean.

“Y/N, Sweetheart, it’s Dean. I’m right here,” you hear his voice from a distance. The vision before your eyes begins to fade, but your terror stays with you. “Look at me,” Dean insists, “You’re alright.” The bunker begins to reform around you. Sam sits to your right, his arms wrapped around you as he holds you tight. Dean kneels down before you, his hands holding yours.

They must’ve moved you to the sofa while you were having your vision. Both Winchesters try to reassure you, Sam pressing kisses to the top of your head and Dean pressing kisses to your knuckles. “You’re safe,” Sam whispers.

“Take a deep breath,” Dean instructs, “That’s it. You’re ok.” You do as Dean says, taking deep breaths that slow your breathing. The pounding in your ears fades as your heart rate begins to return to normal.

“The picture,” you mutter, “My - My parents.” Dean looks from you to Sam. Sam mouths something that you don’t quite catch before Dean nods in understanding.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Dean tells you. He stands from the floor and moves to sit beside you. “Sam, would you mind going to grab Y/N a glass of water?” Dean asks.

“Sure,” Sam answers. He places one last kiss to the top of your head before letting his arms slip from around you.

Dean instantly takes you in his arms and pulls you close, your head resting against his chest. “I’m so sorry,” Dean whispers, “For all of this.”

“It’s not your fault,” you respond, fisting your hand into his shirt.

“What if it is?” Dean asks. He tucks your head beneath his chin and runs his fingers through your hair. “What if I did something to cause this and we both forgot?” he continues, “I can’t stand the thought that I might have caused this.”

“Well, maybe it was me,” you argue.

“Don’t say that,” Dean whispers.

“Maybe I played with a spell and it went wrong,” you suggest, “Or maybe I went hunting on my own and got caught.”

“You didn’t,” Dean assures, “I know this wasn’t your fault.”

“And I know it wasn’t yours,” you reply.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, huffing a laugh, “How’s that?”

“I trust you,” you tell him, “This … panic attack, or whatever it was … I saw something. I don’t know why the pictures you showed me didn’t spark my memory, but the one in the grimoire did. I saw my parents die, Dean, and when it was over, you were the person I called for help.”

“I was probably just the first person on your contact list,” Dean shrugs.

“No,” you reply, “I searched through that whole damn phone for someone I could count on. It wasn’t Sam or anyone else I wanted to call; it was you. Maybe I don’t remember meeting you or falling in love, but I remember this. Dean, I chose to call you for a reason and I know that has to be important.”

“I’m sorry that this is what you remembered,” Dean says, “I wish it had been a better memory.”

“Being a hunter, I’m guessing those are few and far between,” you comment, making Dean laugh.

“It’s not all bad,” Dean tells you. You’re not sure what to say to that. Instead, you sit in silence for a moment, listening to Dean’s heartbeat as he combs his fingers through your hair.

“Dean, why are you so patient with me?” you ask.

“Because I love you,” Dean answers.

“Ok, but really … why?” you insist.

“Because you’d do the same thing for me,” Dean answers, “I know because we’ve been there.“

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Not long ago, I was hit with this spell that erased my memory pretty quickly,” Dean answers, “You did everything you could for me and helped me to remember for as long as I could.”

“How did we fix it?” you question. Dean groans, reluctant to answer.

“Rowena,” Sam answers, standing in the doorway with your glass of water.

“Who’s Rowena?” you question.

“That witch is not the answer,” Dean grumbles.

“She’s a powerful witch who’s helped us in the past,” Sam explains.

“And we are not asking for her help this time,” Dean adds, “We can find an answer to this without resorting to her.”

“But if she helped you, then maybe she could help me too,” you suggest, “Isn’t it worth a shot?”

“It couldn’t hurt to try,” Sam adds, handing you the glass. You turn in Dean’s grasp and take the glass from Sam, sipping the cold water slowly.

“She always wants something in return,” Dean protests.

“Dean, this is Y/N we’re talking about,” Sam says, “Rowena may know something we don’t.”

“I want to remember, Dean,” you say softly, “And not just in bits and pieces. If this Rowena person might have the answers, then I’d like to talk with her. Please?”

“Fine,” Dean reluctantly agrees, “But I want to be there when you meet her. She’s not going to take advantage of you just because you lost your memory.”


End file.
